Remember, an Axis Powers Hetalia Fanfic
by Almost-Awesome
Summary: After a world wide depression the countries of the world forgot about themselves, and went to live normal lives. After years, now things are beginning to improve they are starting to remember the lives they had tried to forget. (there are usually 2 main characters in each section. The subsequent chapters bring them together.)
1. Chapter 1 Section 1

"Welcome everyone, to the first World Conference in 15 years." Germany stood at the head of the long wooden table, taking in the expressions of the rest of the people gathered around it. The rest of the Countries, he corrected himself.  
He sat and England, that's who he was, stood.

"We've called this meeting to discuss the rebuilding of some of the agreements we had before the Depression." The British man tugged on his ear when he was thinking, something he hadn't done before. They all seemed to have new quirks, though they pointedly stayed away from their old haunts, to make it easier on those they'd had to leave behind when they reassumed their rolls as countries. Some of them had readjusted easily enough, but for some it'd be a lot harder. In the back of their minds they still held some doubt. That would take a long time to dissipate.

15 years was a long time to forget, to build up a life and then have to get up one day and leave it behind for something that would put you in an insane asylum.

But they had all remembered, some more grudgingly then others.

But the one word that had started to ring in all their heads.

_Remember. _

_The scent of gunpowder, the flash of steel, and rain… So much rain…_

"You were so great..." 

Arthur Kirkland jumped awake; nearly falling out of his bed. He groaned, stretching and feeling his muscles protest.

Another one of those weirdly vivid dreams… They'd been coming more frequently. But shouldn't dreams have people you know in them?

His therapist had told him that wasn't all that strange. But he hadn't been to see her in a while, hoping that focusing more on his job would help.

It hadn't.

His wife was worried about him, though she didn't bring it up anymore. He tried not to tell her about the dreams, didn't want to make her worry any more. She was driven and intelligent, an English History professor. He still didn't understand why she thought he was worth her time, but didn't complain.

Arthur sighed and curled up into a ball, the frayed pattern of the blanket around his shoulders making his eyes hurt a little. The feeling from the dream still haunted him, he could almost feel the rain on his shoulders, as hard as he tried he couldn't see the face of the person he'd been talking to. But he could remember one word; it rang mockingly in his mind.

"England." His mouth formed the word like it was alien, though it definitely wasn't.

A half-manic laugh worked its way up his throat.

"I should be committed..."

Arthur pushed himself up off the bed, going to find his teapot. He'd need extra strong stuff today; he could already feel a headache coming on. He sat at the little table in his flat, staring into his cup of tea, the steam wreathing patterns into the cool morning air. He saw his mobile, half-buried among a mountain of papers. He reached for it, flicking it open, not surprised when there were no messages on it. He had no one to talk to, his wife had told him yesterday that she had to work late on a thesis paper this weekend to try to finish off her degree.

The tea was pleasantly hot as he swallowed it down, clearing the dream from his head. He finished it and took a blistering hot shower before dressing in his typical work clothes, slacks, a button-down shirt, and a sweater vest. Arthur's wife made fun of him for dressing like an "old man", but he knew she liked it. He continued his futile struggle with his hair, trying to get his bangs to lay down enough to hide his bushy eyebrows. He gave up, as he always did, and went to find his coat.

He stepped out into the cool London morning; for once it wasn't raining yet. He slipped into the quick-mart below his flat to get something for breakfast before he made his way down the still-quiet street to the little bookshop he worked in, waving to the young lady that ran the attached tea shop.

"Good morning Arthur!" She waved, offering him a cup of her newest tea blend. She loved to use him as a guinea pig.  
He took the cup gratefully, promising to bring her his thoughts on it later in the day. Then he flipped the sign to OPEN, and unlocked the main door, quickly situating himself behind the main desk, the vanilla smell of old books wreathing around him. He smiled fondly at the cup in his hands. This is what had become of his life, after he'd woken up in Oxford library with no memory of how he got there. Or anything for that matter, except his name.

"Mister Kirkland?" Arthur jumped, not noticing the boy who had walked up to the counter.

"Oh, good morning lad."

The Asian boy smiled at him, as he always did. He'd been in the teashop every day for the last few months. His adopted family had sent him over to study English for a while. So he'd been spending his time running between the shop next door and this one, fetching books on all subjects and devouring them all. He was a very polite customer, so Arthur didn't mind him. The only strange thing he'd noticed so far were his eyebrows, disproportionately bushy, somewhat like his own.

The boy smiled kindly at him. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going back home today."

Arthur felt a pang of sadness. It had been nice to have a regular; he'd never even learned the boy's name. "Well I'm glad that you enjoyed your time here."

The boy bows his head. "Yes, thank you very much for allowing me to use your wonderful shop.

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. "Well thank you, but it's not my shop, the owner is just very absent."

The boy laughs. "Well you take good care of it, I wish you well Mr. Kirkland." The boy shakes his hand and walks out into the dreary morning.

Arthur sits behind the desk, watching sparkles of dust dance in the weak morning sunlight through the window. Then, with no warning, the sky opens up and douses the world with more rain, the few people in the streets running for cover.

It's an agonizingly slow day. No one has come into the shop since the boy, the rain forcing everyone in their right mind inside.

Arthur soon finds his eyes getting heavy, and rests his head on his arms, content with the notion that the bell on the door would wake him if anyone came in.

_The sound of an air-raid siren, and ground quaking… People screaming, buildings falling to bombs… The reek of death and destruction..."_

England.

England.

England.


	2. Chapter 1 Section 2

"How was your flight Mr. Jones?"

"Call me Alfred, how many times do I have to ask?" The young man looked sheepish. "But it was pretty routine, nothing to report." The pilot sighed and pulled a sucker out of his jacket pocket, his hair ruffled by the breeze on the airstrip. "Need anything else?" He smiled at the young man, who thanked him and left.

A young lady rushed up and took his place. "Mr. Jones, I got a file with your name on it."

He smiles. "Alfred, please. Mr. Jones is so formal, as I tell everyone."

The young lady doesn't smile, she looks grave, "Well then, I still have a file with your name on it. From the higher-ups, they need you to go out in a small plane and go look for some missing people in the Canadian Wilderness. As soon as you can leave."

"I can't leave from this airport, you only have large planes."

"Well there's a car waiting, to take you to your plane, shouldn't be too long of a drive."

"Shouldn't we try to get there as quickly as possible if there are missing people?" Alfred sucked on the candy thoughtfully, watching the girl's expression.

"I don't know, it's just my job to bring you the file. If you'll please follow me."

Alfred smiles again, following her down the strip to the car that had pulled up.

He pulled off his bomber jacket as he took the file from the girl and slid into the backseat of the car. "Thank you miss."  
She said nothing, just closed the door, as the car immediately started moving.

Alfred flipped open the folder, looked like there were five missing people, four hikers and the guide. There was a map of the area they were supposed to be in, and pictures of them all. The guide looked…familiar almost. But that must be because they looked similar, he and this man could almost be brothers. Did he have a brother?

It was all making his head hurt already, so he closed his eyes and rested his head back on the seat.

_The smell of burning, and pain, lots of pain…The sharp tang of blood and burning wood._

"Why would you do this to me?" He felt an echo of half-forgotten anger from a long time ago.

"You tried to invade me brother."

"You're just too weak to break away from him! So you ally with him to burn down Washington?!"

The barrel of a gun, pointed at his face.

"I am not weak. Do not call me weak."

Another thrill of fear, the thickening of the smoke that wreathed around them.

"That doesn't give you the right to burn down my capital!"

"Suck it up brother, you've lost. Now go rebuild. You're a country now, America." The red shape in the smoke pulled the gun back, and turned away to disappear in the heat.

Alfred jumped awake, coughing. He could almost taste the smoke. The dream had been so strong…  
The driver looked at him through the rear-view mirror, asking if he was all right.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Alfred takes a few deep breaths and stares out the window.

"We'll be to your plane in just a few minutes, Mr. Jones."

Alfred nodded. "Thank you..." He forgot to ask the man to call him Alfred, his mind was still clouded with smoke from his dream.  
_"You're a country now America" _

The words kept ringing through his mind.

"But I don't have a brother, do I? And why…" He mumbled to himself, his head starting to hurt again. He shook it off, shaking himself and stretching, filing the dream away for later reflection. If he decided it mattered. The car pulled to a stop, and the driver let him out. He thanked him, and shook his hand, not used to being chauffeured.

His plane was already running. A single-engine number, looked like a re-vamped version of a world war two bomber, it was tiny and mobile, could be landed almost anywhere. He smiled and swung himself into the pilot seat after checking the GPS tracker was working. Mostly his job was just to figure out where these people were, and if he could land, then offer some assistance. The guide had been the one to call them in on an emergency radio, the hikers had wandered away from him and gotten stuck somewhere they weren't supposed to be.

He flipped on all the switches and grinned as the propeller started to turn. Even if he couldn't remember his childhood, he could do this. He was a damn good pilot, and he could use it to help people.

Help this mystery man that made him think of smoke…

_You're a country now…_

America. 

"Everyone…Everyone please!" Matthew Williams did his best to yell over the hysterics of the four people he had been guiding. However, being heard had never been one of his strong points. He grabbed the closest person, the younger of the two men, by the shoulder and shook him. This managed to attract his attention, especially when Matthew stomped on his foot and he began to swear loudly.

"What the hell?!"

Matthew just smiled gently. "If I could have everyone's attention please?"

The other three, the older man and the young lovers, looked at him as well.

"Thank you!" He continued in a more stern tone. "Now, we are lost, and stuck here until someone can find us." The man he had a hold of opened his mouth but Matthew ignored him and continued talking. "We will stay here, together, and stay calm. I've called the people back at the entrance of the preserve and they promised they would have a plane to us in a few hours."

The woman opened her mouth; her hair had come loose from its perfect ponytail somewhere along the way down the hill.

"My boyfriend's leg is broken. And you're bleeding. We fell in a ravine! Can you see the sky from here? I can't either so how the hell is anyone going to find us?! What the hell kind of guide are you?!"

Said boyfriend let out a moan of pain, cradling his fractured leg.

Matthew frowned at the half-hysterical woman. "I know exactly where we are, and have let them know as best I could. Your boyfriend has a fractured wrist, and a twisted ankle, not a broken leg, as much as he continued to moan about both. And I am the best guide around here. It's not my fault that all of you decided that I wasn't taking you the most interesting way and decided to go off on your own. Or did the fall not show that maybe that was a bad idea?" Matthew snarled at the woman, his voice never really getting louder.  
The woman looked shocked, folding in on herself and checking on her idiot boyfriend. The other two men were staring at Matthew like he'd grown a second head.

Matthew leaned against a rock, finally feeling the warm blood running down his arm, he'd cut his shoulder on a rock as he slid down the ravine to check on the others. He pulled his water bottle out of his backpack and took a drink before using a little to wash out the cut, hissing as he did. He took a few deep breaths and flicked his eyes to the slope above him, where his first aide kit had burst open and scattered anything useful along with it across the ground where none of them could get to it.

Figures… He sighs. The others had gathered around the boyfriend, whispering words of condolence that were starting to grate on Matthew's nerves. He checked his radio again, but no one answered. He strained his ears to hear the drone of a plane, though he knew they wouldn't have reached them yet.

He watched the little sliver of sky he could see through the canopy of trees, just stared up for what seemed like days, but was more like just a few minutes. A song popped into his head. The Canadian National Anthem, he smiled as he started to hum it softly.  
The five people in the ravine all jumped when they head the drone of an airplane. The girl jumped up, and the other two men followed suit, the boyfriend stayed on the ground. Though he was probably just fine to stand he stayed down and whimpered again.  
Matthew got up too, stiffly and checked his shoulder, it had stopped bleeding but it looked pretty awful. He groaned and pulled the radio out of his backpack again, hoping he could pick up the frequency of the radio in the plane. The drone continued to get closer. Ignoring the other people Matthew started to cycle through the channels on his radio, listening to the static. He grinned when he heard a voice come through.

"Hello? Is this the plane that was sent to come get the stranded people?"

"10-4 good buddy, I'm almost to your given coordinates, is everyone alright?"

The voice seemed familiar, but Matthew couldn't place it. "We're in a ravine, so you probably won't be able to see us from the sky. There's really nowhere to land close-by either."

"There's no clearings?" The voice was very calm, the original boisterousness hidden with the seriousness. "I'm in a little plane, so if there's a decent clearing then…"

Matthew quickly decided that this man was insane, but if he could pull off a landing and get them out of the damn ravine then… "There's one about a mile from us. It's a big one, filled with purple and yellow flowers. You should be able to see it. We're West of it."  
"Sweet! I'll contact you again when I need more help. Don't worry your hero will be there soon!"

Staring at the radio in his hand Matthew actually smiled. Of course they would send someone crazy to get them.

Story of my life… He sighed and stood, coughing loudly to get everyone's attention.

"Excuse me! Our rescuer is on the way." Everyone stared at him, different levels of relief on all of their faces. "We should try our best to just stay calm and wait just a little bit longer."

The pilot called again on the radio within the hour, and soon Matthew could hear him crashing through the brush at the top of the ravine. Then a blond head poked over the edge of the wall, with a huge grin.

"Hey! Is everyone alright?"

Matthew walked to the edge of the ravine. "Yeah, no major injuries. But the ravine is steep, do you have a rope or something?"  
The blond head disappeared, and a minute later a rope slid down to Matthew. He grabbed it and dragged the others over, making sure that they made it up safely, despite much moaning and groaning. He helped the injured boyfriend and then grabbed his pack before pulling himself up as well, trying to ignore his protesting shoulder which started to bleed again. The pilot grabbed his hand and helped pull him over the edge.

Matthew thanked him and straightened, looking up into a blinding smile and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.

_Sun, flowers, trees and the smell of clean air…and the ringing of the laughter of children… Two bits of blue sky in the face of a child… And a pair of warm arms and whispered condolences in French…_

"Canada!"


	3. Chapter 1 Section 3

It was still early, and the Parisian streets were just coming awake. Francis Bonnefoy tied his hair back carefully, not bothering with the chef's hat this early in the day. He grabbed an onion and a cutting board, and before long the smell of cooking perfumed the air. He hummed as he chopped and stirred, the smells soothing him in a way nothing else could.

His assistant called through the still-empty restaurant as he opened up for the day pulling on his own apron and going to check on the food-stores. Francis waved at him absently, adding some basil to his creation. He flicked off the stove and grabbed one of the still hot loaves of bread, cutting himself a piece and spooning some of the concoction onto it, happily munching on it as he watched his assistant bustle around.

The young man was hard working, his chocolate brown hair held back from his face with clips. He'd always reminded Francis of someone, though he couldn't place who it was. He stared at the boy and he could almost see who it was, his eyes changing to soft green, his skin darkening to a sun-kissed golden brown…But then he would move again, and the illusion would be shattered. Then Francis would shake himself and get back to work, brushing the thoughts away for more pressing things.

"Good morning Mr. Bonnefoy." The young man smiled at him, his words breaking Francis out of his thoughts. "I expect we will be busy again today."

Francis smiled back. "I certainly hope so." He finished his bread and began the rest of his morning chores.

The day turned out to be even busier then they had expected, leaving Francis no time to think of anything but filling orders.  
By the end everyone was exhausted, and Francis let everyone leave little early, thanking them for their hard work as he waved them out. Then he flopped down at one of the tables, his whole body tired as he surveyed the little restaurant. This had been his dream since as long as he could remember. So what if that wasn't really very long? The soreness in his muscles was a glad sacrifice for realizing his drive for cooking. He smiled and laid his head down on the table, the smooth wood cool against his cheek. He watched the people walking in the light rain that had begun to fall, their steps quick and purposeful, as his eyes started to get heavy.

Sleepy…

_He felt a tug on his sleeve, and looked down to see a child, his eyes more purple the blue, a stubborn curl sticking out of the rest of his wavy blond hair._

"Papa France!"

He felt a smile tug on his lips as he ruffled the child's hair. "What is it mon petit?"

"Uncle Prussia and Uncle Spain are here, wake up."

He looked up, the restaurant was gone, and he was somewhere he couldn't remember. Two people were coming over to meet him at the table and he smiled at them. There were never two people so opposite. The one was the man with the dark hair and tanned skin, the other a man so pale he almost seemed translucent, except his fierce red eyes, albino.

He stood to embrace them.

The albino smiled at him, just as fierce as his eyes. "Long time no see, France." 

_Bang! _The gunshot reverberated off the walls and bounced back along the hallway, the wet splatter of blood accompanying the cacophony.

The force of the bullet knocked Gilbert backward, and it still hurt like hell.

The man that had shot him looked pretty self-satisfied as he walked over and kicked Gilbert's leg. He lay there for a few more moments, until the man came up to his head. Then he struck, grabbing the gun and snapping the man's wrist as he pulled himself back to standing.

The guard let out a scream of pain and terror as he crumpled to the ground.

Gilbert just smiled at him as the man's eyes widened. "You can't kill Prussia."

He kicked the man and rolled his shoulders, his black-gloved fingers finding the hole in his chest. "That hurt…" The hole would take a few days to mend. It went all the way through him, he grinned again at the though of being able to see light through the other side.

"That will make them piss themselves."

He stretched his spine, and grabbed the edge of the closest windowsill, dropping onto the balcony of the next floor.

_There were certainly worse ways to spend your time. _

He saw two more guards, both toting guns and rushed toward them.

_What else was he supposed to do? _

He left them dangling off the balcony he had come in on.

_After all, even if he was Prussia, he still could use the money._

He knocked on the intricate door of the crime-boss, a false courtesy.

After this job he'd go find his brother, and see if he could make him remember too. That Russian and his Chinese friend had already contacted him.

Another bullet, this one through the door and into his stomach. He swung the door open and bared his teeth in a smile.

"You can't kill Prussia."


	4. Chapter 2 Section 1

It was hot the day that Gilbert found his brother. If he hadn't been so stubborn he might have given up. There were a lot of Ludwig's in the phonebook, and he hadn't really expected to find him there. He parked his car a block away, and walked the rest of the way to the little mechanic's shop. He glared up at the sun, straightening his sunglasses and hunching his shoulders. It shouldn't be so hot in Germany. He was going to get sunburned just walking a block.

Gilbert muttered to himself as he reached the front of the shop, the smell of engine grease and motor oil radiating from the asphalt. The door greeted him with a tinkling bell as he slipped inside and the air conditioning was a welcome relief from the heat. A young lady came from the back room and gave him a pleasant smile. Gilbert took off his sunglasses and hooked them on the front of his shirt.

"Do you have an appointment sir?" The woman was pretty enough, her hair was a sun-warmed caramel and she had warm brown eyes. Her hair was pulled up with a pin, an Italian flag.

_Old habits die hard. _Gilbert smiled at her. "No, but I'm and old friend of your mechanic. Ludwig?"

Her smile never faltered, "Oh, yes, I'll go get him." She slipped back through the door and Gilbert laughed to himself.

After a few moments the door opened again, to reveal his brother, Ludwig. He stood there for a few moments, every possible emotion sliding across his face, before he bolted back out the door.

"Oh, come on, don't do that!" Gilbert crossed the room and yanked the door open, chasing after the fleeing form of his brother. He brushed past the little brunette, and she began to say something but he didn't hear.

Ludwig was fast, but he couldn't beat Gilbert in an urban environment like this. Gilbert saw him whip around a corner, and grabbed the rail of a fence over an alley swinging up and over the chain-link and cutting the corner, dropping down right in front of his brother.  
Ludwig stopped short, his arms reeling for a moment as he tried to change direction. He stopped, his eyes flicking around to try and find a way to escape but deciding against it. Gilbert crowded him; his boots making up for the height difference and letting him look Ludwig in the eye.

"Bruder."

Ludwig's reply was a fist to his face.

Gilbert swayed and cursed, popping his nose back into place and cursing a bit more.

Ludwig just stood there, breathing hard and staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Gilbert straightened again, wiping a little blood from his cheek. "Good punch."

Ludwig raised his hand to hit him again, but Gilbert was faster this time, dodging it and pushing his brother off-balance and back onto his butt.

"You shouldn't hit, little brother. Especially after I spent so much time trying to find you." Gilbert frowned down at his brother.

Finally Ludwig spoke. "Stop calling me brother."

Gilbert's frown deepened. "What would you rather I call you, Germany?"

Ludwig flinched like he'd been slapped. "You're wrong. You're crazy."

Gilbert smiled now, a sad smile. "If I was you wouldn't have run." He held his hand out but Ludwig pushed himself up without it, straightening his spine.

"That's better." Gilbert smiled, patting his brother's shoulder. "Now, why don't we go back to your shop?"

Ludwig didn't say anything, but turned and they walked together back the way they had come. His muscles still jumped from time-to-time, and Gilbert was careful to watch for his hand to come up, he didn't want to get punched again.

Gilbert and Ludwig made it back to the mechanics shop without any further incident, Gilbert happily reclining in one of the chairs in the waiting room and soaking up the air-conditioning.

Ludwig stood and crossed his arms, looking angry again. "So?"

Gilbert frowns. "So what? You remember who you are, my job is done."

"I don't remember why I forgot…" Ludwig sighs and sits across from his brother.

"The Depression." Gilbert gets a blank look. "The worth of currency tanked, and the global economy crashed. Everyone lost their jobs, and just generally tried to stay afloat. The governments collapsed. We all forgot being countries, since our countries collapsed. Now that the world is getting back in its feet, we're remembering."

Ludwig frowned. "Then why do you remember, Prussia hasn't been a country for a long time."  
Gilbert sprawled in his chair. "I have no idea. Just awesome I guess."

"So what about the others?"

Sitting up, Gilbert counted on his fingers. "So far I know… Russia, China, Me, You, all the Nordics except Finland because they can't find him, and Spain."

Ludwig's frown deepened. "Italy?"  
Gilbert smiled. "I know where he is, but I thought maybe you'd want to be the one to talk to him."

Ludwig blushed.

"You're assistant if awfully pretty. Italian?"

Ludwig's blush deepened. "She's the bosses daughter…"

Gilbert winked at his brother. "We should go, find Italy."

Ludwig stood. "Yeah, I'll just let her know I'm leaving early." Gilbert grabbed his shoulder as he turned.

"No, we need to go. You can't have any more contact with any of them."

Ludwig's muscles tensed. "Okay…"

Matthew woke up in a car, and it took him a moment to remember getting there. The man who had rescued him, the pilot, was sitting next to him. He sat up. His shoulder ached, and so did his head. He turned to the man next to him, a name swimming into his mind.  
"Alfred."

Alfred jumped, looking over at him. "Oh, you're awake. Good, I was getting worried."

"Where are we going?" Matthew groaned and tried to stretch his shoulder, it was bandaged, but still hurt.

"Hmm? Oh, we're going to the embassy, apparently there was some mix-up and they took my plane."

Matthew frowned. "Yeah, you're American, why did they send you?"

"I got the order, some big mix-up I guess." Alfred shrugged.

"I guess…" Matthew examined the man's face. It was almost like looking in a mirror. Same cheekbones, same nose…But his eyes were different, the most clear blue he had ever seen.

Glasses. He should be wearing glasses. The thought filtered to the top of his brain without any idea of where it came from. The revelation made his head pound and he closed his eyes. "Why am I here?" He sighed.

He wasn't sure Alfred had heard him. "You asked to come, don't you remember?"

Matthew's eyes popped open. "Asked? No I don't." But even as he said it the memories came flooding back.

He had asked. As soon as the police came to find them and they had started to question Alfred he had stepped in, firing questions in a manner totally unlike him. They'd still taken Alfred's plane, and they had been trundled into the government car.

"You really handed those government guys their butts. You sounded a little crazy, yammering about how your government was crazy and you promised the guys that you'd go to your officials to ream them."

Matthew frowned, his head pounding. "Momentary insanity…"

Alfred laughed, a bright and cheery sound that seemed to light up the car. "You're crazy Mattie."  
Matthew's face twisted up in confusion. "What did you call me?"

"Mattie, your name is Matthew isn't it?" Alfred flicked his gaze over to the man next to him. "Seems a reasonable nickname."  
Matthew frowned again. "Yeah…But please, call me Matthew."

He closed his eyes again and leaned back in the chair, his head still pounding away.  
He falls asleep; he must have because he's suddenly in a field.

_It's a pretty field, filled with bright yellow flowers. He frowns as the reek of fire, the sky darkening with putrid smoke. He jumped as a bullet whizzed by his head._

He turned to see Alfred, dressed in an old Revolutionary War coat, his face contorted with rage as he leveled the musket at him again.  
"How could you?!"

Matthew shrank away from him, his blood turning cold. "W-what are you talking about?"

Alfred snarled at him. "You came with him and burned down Washington! What kind of brother are you?!"

Matthew whimpered, wishing he could disappear. "I don't know what-"

Alfred shook the gun at him. "You're not even your own country! You just let him rule you!"

"America, you brought this on yourself." The words slid through Matthew's lips, and suddenly he felt the heavy wool of a coat on his shoulders and the weight of a musket in his hands. "You deserve this. And I won't apologize."

America, that's who he was, crumpled, his rage turning to grief.

"Why Canada…"

"You're a country now, America." 

Matthew jumped awake, his skin crawling. He looked over to the man sitting next to him, his eyes stinging.

"America…"

Alfred jumps, his head turning.

"What did you say?"

Matthew, Canada, felt hot tears running down his cheeks. It took him a moment to speak.

"You're America…"

Alfred frowned and pressed the back of his hand to Matthew's forehead. "I think you're confused…"

Matthew shook him off. "I know what I'm saying! I remember!"

Alfred looked surprised, his eyes widening when Matthew grabbed his shoulders.

"Remember!" Matthew shakes him. "I know I'm right! You're Alfred Jones, America! You fought with England for your independence! And I'm your brother, I'm Canada!"

Alfred's eyes were so wide they looked like they were going to fall out. Then they filled with tears.

Matthew hugged him, feeling his brother's shoulders shake.

Alfred eventually pushed him away, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Well I guess we should be able to get my plane back, huh?"


	5. Chapter 2 Section 2

Arthur was sick. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been sick. His head felt like it was filled with cotton, and his whole body ached. His wife had taken several days off of work to take care of him, playing the studious caregiver and bringing him everything he could need. After that few days he had urged her to go back to work, promising that he felt much better. A lie, but one she swallowed without too much difficulty. Upon her return to work she made him promise to go and see a doctor if he didn't improve by the time she got home.

He promised her.

But he didn't call the doctor.

Instead he just lay on the floor, too weak to move while his eyes swam with fever-dreams.

He remembered lifetimes of things, hundreds of lifetimes in flashes and sounds. The clang of steel and the burst of cannons, the earth quaking as bombs rained down and the cries of dying men. And the sea… The constant drone of the sea… The seeped into his blood and blocked his ears.

His wife took him to the doctor, worry aging her face as they did every imaginable test. It was an exercise in futility. In the hospital he fell into a coma, the doctors were stumped. There was nothing wrong with him, no sickness that could be identified and no outward signs except his fits of fever.

After a month he awoke. It was very early in the day, and he was alone, his wife having returned home for the night. The light of dawn was just starting to touch the world, painting everything in a dull gray and deepening the shadows in the room, turning everything to monochrome. He pulled himself out of bed, his muscles creaking from disuse and hobbled into the bathroom attached to his room. He leaned on the sink and stared at his own reflection, his face thin and his shoulders bony from the sickness. His eyes were sunken and stared out above bruise-like half-moons. But still they were bright, shining like gems from his gaunt face. He felt his stomach churn and looked away, couldn't bear to look.

In the monochrome, with the only color his own eyes staring through the mirror, England cried.  
Once he was able to compose himself again he went back to his bed, standing aimlessly in the sterile hospital room and trying to straighten out his thoughts.

He knew he had to go. He had to go and find the others. His wife… She would miss him. He kissed the ring on his finger and pulled it off, sliding it carefully into his pocket. He would keep it; maybe still wear it, but not today. He looked down at himself, the paper hospital gown hanging off his skinny frame. Clothes. Clothes were the next goal. He had to keep thinking of what to do next, or he would surely break down again. And he didn't have time for that. Had to go before they could come check on him.  
He found a set of clothes his wife had brought him; in hopes he would improve soon. He pulled them on and slipped out of the room and down the hall. It was still early and nearly silent in the big hospital. The night staff was packing up to leave, and no one even seemed to notice him. He hailed a cab once he was outside and then sat in the back, the driver waiting impatiently for him to give him an address.

He had none. He couldn't go home anymore. Where did countries live anyway? An address slipped into his mind and he spouted it to the driver. The tired-looking man sighed and turned from the curb.

Arthur managed to keep himself composed for the whole cab ride. When they pulled up to his old house on the edge of London he paid the driver, giving him a generous tip for such a long drive. He then found the hidden key to the door, taped to the inside of the lattice in the garden, and let himself in. The stale air hit him first, then the chemical tinge of the furniture varnish.

He let himself cry again, curled up on the entry-way mat.

Francis lived in a small apartment above the restaurant, he could have lived somewhere nicer, but he liked to feel so close to his biggest accomplishment. It kept him grounded. He often lay in bed at night and tried to think, tried to remember all the things that he had forgotten. But as hard as he tried he couldn't remember anything, not until tonight. And now he was sure he was insane. He paced the length of his apartment, muttering, something he _never_did. That was left to cranky Brits._ Wait, what? _

Francis shook himself, sighing and flopping on his bed. He twisted a lock of his hair around a finger absently, trying to make sense of the snarl in his mind.

"France…" The word rolled from his tongue, familiar, but with a sudden tang of bitterness. He closed his eyes, hoping to see something else. But it was just blackness.

He sat up, angry with himself.

"Stop these foolish thoughts, you will be throwing away everything you have worked for." He hated the sound of his own voice. He felt his stomach churn, he was going to be sick.

Pushing himself off from the bed he rushed to the bathroom, pulling his hair back before he emptied his stomach into the porcelain bowl. Once he managed to catch his breath he sat back, still panting. He stood on wobbly legs and rinsed out his mouth, then flopped back down on the floor and lay there for a while.

Once his legs worked again he proceeded to try to drown the thoughts in the most expensive bottle of wine he owned. But the blurring effects of the wine had the opposite effect, only blurring out the world around him and intensifying the rest.

He remembered the view from the Eifle Tower the day it was built, having climbed up the twisting stairs for what seemed like hours. He remembered the French Revolution. giving America the Statue of Liberty. Hell, he remembered the Black Plague. All the strands of time weaving and swirling together until he felt he was going to burst. He cursed to himself, the archaic French slipping from his tongue without him thinking.

"Well is this not wonderful…" Francis sighed, corking the wine bottle and stumbling back up the stairs to his bed. Might as well just go to sleep, there was nothing he could do right now….

His phone rang, the sound slamming into his skull. Stumbling around blearily Francis tried to find the source of the noise. He found his cell phone balanced on his bedpost, threatening to fall as it vibrated. Grabbing it he flicked it open and pressed it to his ear. "'ello?"

"Papa?"

Francis felt his heart freeze. "Mathieu..."

He heard a sob of relief on the other end. "Oui Papa, I'm so glad I found you!"


	6. Chapter 2 Section 3

Ludwig could remember the last time he had been in Italy, it had been raining, and everyone had still been outside, plenty of people dancing around in the shower like idiots. Now it was sunny, like it was supposed to be in Italy, and he was looking for only one idiot.  
Gilbert had told him where he thought he would be. Apparently he had become a street painter. Ludwig couldn't help the smile at the image, of course he would be doing something like that. Now he was headed toward the sun drenched plaza where Gilbert, Prussia, had found him the first time and trying to push down the knot of apprehension in his stomach.  
There were many people milling around, the sounds of sparkly Italian floating with laughter and the sound of general enjoyment. Ludwig himself smiled, such a pleasant country, and started to make his way around the edge of the plaza, keeping his eyes peeled for an easel and copper hair.  
He was not hard to find. Though he was not the only painter in the area he was the most flamboyant, and the messiest. His paint and supplies seemed to have been dumped onto the ground around his feet and he would stoop occasionally to grab a new color, and then drop it between his knees, only to have to go searching for it when he needed it next. Ludwig felt his heart stutter, worry and happiness dueling for his attention. He rung his hands for a bit, then carefully made his way over to the man, who did not notice him.  
"Bongiorno…" He hoped his accent wasn't too awful, he had picked up quite a bit from listening to the small man prattle on in whatever language suited him at the time. He remembered having to occasionally remind him that Latin was a dead language and no one was going to be able to understand him.  
"Ah, ciao, ciao!" The words spoken before the warm brown eyes came up to look at him, his mouth open to say something else. The pleasant grin turned into a frozen mask of fear, his eyes widening to the point that Ludwig was a bit worried they would fall out.  
"Feliciano…" Ludwig put out his hand but the Italian jumped from him like he had offered him a cobra, his eyes accusing.  
"I do not know you!"  
It took Ludwig a moment to translate the hasty sentence. "Feliciano please…" Was all he could say before he felt the hauntingly familiar press of a cold metal gun barrel into his back.  
Feliciano's eyes turned to the man behind Ludwig, that neither of them had noticed until now.  
"Is this man causing you trouble?" Ludwig could translate faster now, not that it was helping him.  
Feliciano was shaking his head, his eyes filling with tears. "I need to talk to my brother…"  
The gun was removed from Ludwig's spine and a hand came up to grasp his shoulder.  
"Then that is where we will go."  
Ludwig could have fought, but he didn't want to lose Feliciano, who knew how long it would take to find him again. So he went willingly with the dark-suited assailant as they were driven someplace new.  
Ludwig growled when he was kicked from the car and escorted behind Feliciano into a seemingly innocuous little family store. They walked past crates of fruits and vegetables, earning little attention from the few people doing their shopping as they slipped into the back.  
Ludwig was taken to a rather posh office with plushy armchairs and a large oak desk, where he was shoved into one of the chairs across from another very familiar man.  
"Brother Romano!" Feliciano rushed up to the man, spluttering on in Italian too fast for Ludwig to translate.  
The darker man cursed at his brother to shut up and then turned in his chair back to Ludwig.  
"Long time no see, Kraut. What did you do this time to twist my poor brother's head around?"  
Ludwig almost sighed in relief, the other Italian remembered. "I just came for a visit."  
The irony was lost on the glaring man, who turned to his whimpering brother and cursed at him some more to be quiet.  
"I've been trying to keep my idiot brother in the dark about this for a while now, and you just have to come and show up and ruin everything, huh?"  
Ludwig frowned at the man. "I was trying to make sure he was safe, he would have remembered eventually."  
Romano leveled his glare at the German. "I had plans for that as well. As you can see I have done pretty well for myself, being a country doesn't interest me, why would I want to go back to living in this idiot's shadow?" He tossed another glance at his brother.  
"Why would you lie to me fratello…?" Feliciano piped up, his voice small.  
Romano turned to glare at the man. "I didn't lie, I just didn't tell you. The potato eater is right, you would have remembered on your own I was just waiting."  
Ludwig felt protectiveness swell in his chest. "Don't yell at him, it isn't his fault. Now he remembers and that's all that matters."  
Feliciano stepped out from behind Romano's desk and hugged Ludwig tightly.  
"I missed you Germany…"  
Romano rolled his eyes, pushing himself out of his chair and crossing to a carefully hung painting, pulling it over and opening a safe behind it.  
"Being the head of the mob has its benefits, so does not being able to die." He took out a wad of bills and tossed them at his brother. "Go, find something to do that doesn't bother me."  
Ludwig pried the Italian off him and scooped up the wad of bills. "Prussia found Spain." Romano twitched but otherwise didn't move. "I suspect he'll be coming to see you soon."  
Gathering up the latter Italian and stuffing the money in his pocket Ludwig brushed past the statue-like man and made his way back through the store.

They found Gilbert lounging at a café eating a gelato and generally looking like a pleased cat. "I found him you see."  
Ludwig just nodded, Feliciano rushing forward to hug the albino and taking the opportunity to jabber some more.  
"Who's left?"  
Gilbert looked up at his brother. "Plenty, but I found one that might be interesting, an old friend." A devilish grin split his face. "He's found himself a home in a mental asylum."  
Germany frowned. "That doesn't seem much like him."  
Feliciano pulled himself away from hanging on Gilbert and frowned. "Who?"  
Gilbert's smile grew. "Who else? Roderich." He turned to his brother again. "Tried to convince everyone that he was the great Austria, people don't take too kindly to that."  
Ludwig didn't smile. "I don't think we can break him out of a mental hospital."  
Gilbert didn't lose his grin. "I've become a bit of a pro at freeing things that don't people with would stay locked up. Though I will take plenty of time to laugh at him in the meantime."


	7. Chapter 3 Section 1

The hidden key was easy to find. After all, it was his house. Arthur slid the key into the old lock and pulled on the cast iron handle.

The smell of dust and furniture polish invaded his nose as he stepped into the dark cavern of the entryway.

There was no dust anywhere. Which confused Arthur. If no one had been here since he had last been, who had cleaned?

Feeling a little creeped out, Arthur was glad that it was still bright outside as he ghosted through room after room. There were probably over a hundred paintings, and about half as many photographs. Many of them were of him, which was also disconcerting. Seeing his own eyes staring out at him from ancient paintings with colors from the renaissance and before gave him goose bumps.

There was a whole ancient suit of armor in the entryway, and another in the library. The entryway set was somewhat plain, a traditional plate metal sort with a visored helmet. The suit in the library was grand. Made with brass that shone even in the corner of the room. Obviously not for use as protection, the sword hanging with it was filled with jewels.

The library itself was grand. Filled with more books that Arthur thought anyone could possibly read. They seemed to be grouped in chronological order more than anything else. Though the shelf in the center seemed to be his own personal favorites from the collection. There were new books, ones that he had seen in his own bookshop, and some so old they didn't even have titles, the leather binding worn and cracking. Some were even older than that, and he didn't touch them for fear they would crumble.

A huge version of the King James Bible sat open on a marble pedestal in another corner, upon closer inspection Arthur realized it was written in Latin. He quickly backed away from the monstrous volume when he realized he could read it just as easily as any of the modern books.

There were 7 bathrooms on the 2 floors. Four connecting sets of paired guest rooms that filled the upper floor, a small one off the kitchen area, one near the entrance and the final was the master bath.

Each one of the guest rooms was decorated tastefully, if Arthur did have to say so, all with their own color theme.

The master bedroom, his room, was gigantic. The only one on the ground floor a huge four-poster bed dominated the space. The green blankets making it seem like a hill on its own. Crawling onto it Arthur sighed, the softness immediately embracing him.

He lounged on the bed for a while, curling up under the covers and peering out at the darkening room. The rest of the space was some-what bare. There was a television across from him on the wall, but aside from that and a dresser there was nothing else except an empty vase.

Though the lure of sleep was strong Arthur was determined to finish his exploration. Trudging through the rest of the house he found the stairs leading down.

The basement seemed to be almost entirely unfinished. There was a large clear space with even more books and a desk filled with various objects along with a mortar and pestle and varying types of chalk.

The rest of the basement was filled with boxes. Though they seemed to be somewhat neatly organized many things just seemed to refuse packaging and were standing abandoned in places. As he wandered through the towers of boxes he recognized the ordering system, his own writing blaring out at him from the cardboard. The most recent boxes were towards the front. He could literally walk back in time as he perused the stacks. 2000, 1950, 1800's, 1700's…the boxes gave way to chests, the chests were labeled more haphazardly with things like "Doubloons, Cutlasses, Wigs," Arthur's curiosity flared each time he came across a particularly old box, but he forced himself to keep from peeking, lest he bet there for weeks.

He made his way as far as he could into the room; a large box marked "Viking Helmets" blocking his path. Turning he began to make his way back towards the stairs. He stopped by a box labeled "pistols 1950's-present". Bending he pulled the box open, peering at the collection of guns. A twisted thought seeped its way into his brain and he picked one up, a German pistol, from the Second World War. The information filtered to the surface of his mind without realizing.

His breathing seemed over-loud as he made his way back to the entryway, the tick of the ancient grandfather clock the only other sound. He brushed past a mirror on his way, catching a glimpse of himself. He looked like a wraith, his eyes too wide and his face still splotchy from his earlier stint of crying on his own doorstep.

He found a good spot, and kneeled down, the gun weighing heavily in his hand. The cold barrel made him shiver as he pressed it to his head.

Countries can't die. They're made up of their citizens…Like figureheads of something much larger.

The click of the gun seemed slow, he could hear the mechanism working as the hammer snapped back. Then there was pain, but even that was slow, he could feel the hot bullet rip through his skull and pass all the way through. Arthur sat there for a moment, and then he screamed.

It was worse than he could even imagine, the pain was so much he couldn't see, the hot blood pouring from him. It felt sticky as it slid down his face.

But he didn't die.

He screamed himself hoarse, curling up on the cool wood floor as his blood pooled around him.

But he didn't die.

Suddenly the pain started to lessen, in small increments, until Arthur could sit up again. Putting his hand to his head he felt sick at the tacky blood matting his hair. He straightened up, slowly turning to look into the antique mirror he had passed earlier.

What he saw nearly made him scream again.

He was deathly pale, blood stark red against his clothes. He turned slightly and nearly gagged at the bloody matted mess that was his hair. Arthur brought his hand to his head again, his eyes widening when he saw the perfect hole in his skull. Nausea boiled in him, when he realized he could see light on the other side.

Turning from the mirror, unable to look, his foot brushed the pistol as he trudged to the bathroom, his feet following an old habit without his noticing.

By the time he reached the bathroom and stripped off his ruined clothes the hole was already starting to knit. He stood and stared into the mirror for a few minutes, enthralled and repulsed as he could watch the bone grow back.

By the time the hot water hit him his hair was already starting to regrow.

The shower was stained red as the water took the remnants of the blood with it. Arthur scrubbed at his skin until it hurt, nearly frantic to get any speck of red off him.

The water was growing cold by the time he turned it off, standing for a moment before grabbing a towel and wiping the water droplets from his body.

Any marking from the bullet was completely gone when he examined himself in the mirror again. Arthur felt hysteria bubble up where his revulsion had been, and he slid out into the hall, needing to check to make sure he hadn't just been a dream.

No the blood was still there. Standing in sticky pools on his dark wood floors.

The smell of bleach quickly invaded the space, and Arthur scrubbed the floors as neurotically as he had scrubbed his own skin, a hysterical little laugh slipping from him.


End file.
